


Waited

by sensitivebore



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-20
Updated: 2013-02-20
Packaged: 2017-11-29 22:41:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/692357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sensitivebore/pseuds/sensitivebore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Carson and Hughes, and the wait.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Waited

**I. Him.**

So they're finally here; they've finally breached all of the walls, opened all of the doors, and they're here in his room and the candlelight flickers on the walls, throwing lovely graceful shapes, almost as graceful as the smile she gives him. They're both nervous, with little laughs, little fluttering touches of fingers on wrists, shoulders, necks.

He tries to kiss her with skill, but how many women has he kissed? Not many, but he listens and learns and understands cues when she gives them, understands that her lips parting and her pretty tongue gently stroking his are good, that she would like more. Smooths his palms lightly over her arms, her back, doesn't touch her anywhere forbidden, anywhere urgent, he knows that much. He knows a gentleman should never try to take more than what is freely given, he knows that.

She smiles at him. Traces his face with warm, sure fingers. She knows more than he does, he's starting to understand that. Either she knows more or she's simply less afraid, one or the other, and don't they add up to the same? He wants to tell her but he doesn't want to, because he is a man and he has his pride and it's all backwards from the way things usually work, surely. Surely the man should take the lead, surely the man should reassure, guide, introduce.

Surely that is how others do it, but they are not others. They have never been like anyone or anything else, she and him. He has to tell her, because she will know anyway. She will know because there are simply some things he does not know how to do, not really. He knows, of course, he's a well-read man and he's not ignorant of how things are done in that respect but he doesn't know. And if he doesn't tell her and just tries to fumble through, it won't be nice for her, sweet for her, and he wants it to be. They've waited for so long, and they've denied themselves so much, and now finally they've stopped denying and waiting and it's going to happen and if he lets his pride dictate this, it won't be nice for either of them and all of that pain, all of that hurt will have been for nothing but a rushed, embarassing half-hour in his bed that neither of them will want to face in the morning.

"Mrs. Hughes, I --"

She is kissing his jaw with the sweetest of small kisses; her body is pressed against him in her white cotton nightdress and he can feel push of breast and hip against him as she pushes onto her toes to trail her kisses farther up over his face and his arms are around her and it's all so good and so right and so true that he has to be honest, he has to --

"Mrs. Hughes, you should --"

She has nestled her head against his chest and locked her arms around him as far as they will go and, oh, she smells so good and she's so warm against his body and his bed is ready for them, ready and waiting with a thick quilt and clean sheets and an extra pillow for her, he hadn't forgotten that. Her hand begins slowly, carefully, quietly slipping the buttons of his shirt open, laying open the material so she can caress the small patch of chest she has exposed. Her fingertips are gentle, loving; she combs the silver hair there with cherishing little strokes. Answers him with a little humming noise.

His voice is low, filled with a thousand feelings he couldn't name if he tried.

"-- you should know I've never -- not entirely."

Her head lifts from his shoulder and she looks up at him with those eyes, those storming blue ocean eyes, and he blinks, looks away. Waits for her response, because it has ocurred to him that she might be shocked, or amused, or she might pity him, which would be the worst thing. He has, of course, done some things of this nature with women before. There have been kisses and embraces and gropings a few times with drunken girls in the dancehalls; there has been the odd prostitute or three but he was careful with them, only had them use their hands on -- well. He's just never lain with a woman properly, that's all there is to it, and his face is flushed and he's more than a little humiliated and the silence stretches on for an age it seems to him, and then her arms tighten and he can feel her pleased smile curve against his chest.

"Mr. Carson. _Oh_."

**II. Her.**

Then they're in his bed, side by side, and she's teaching him. Isn't she always teaching him something? Why would this be different? He wants to learn, wants to learn very badly, and oh. Oh, to be the first woman to sample all of the delights this big beautiful body can bring her.

_You might would -- like -- like you're touching the silver, Mr. Carson. I won't break._

Her gasps startle him, make him draw back questioningly. He's so afraid of hurting her, she knows, she can tell; he's so big and she's so small and he doesn't know quite -- but she's putting his hands back over her bared breasts, encouraging him, smiling.

 _Just so, yes, just like that_.

He swallows, fondling her slowly, lets his fingers drag over the nipples and again, she gasps, arches more fully into his hands. He's so beautiful beside her, all silver and steel and soft skin and strong hands -- hesitantly, he bows his head, kisses the curves with a gentle mouth, little brushes across the softest skin.

_Oh, yes. Oh goodness, yes, and -- if you -- here, if you want --_

She catches her thumb on his lower lip, teases his mouth open, draws it to her nipple, pushes it into the warmth of his mouth and she buries a moan in his hair as he closes around her tender flesh, sucks lightly; she's smiling now through her pleasure because he's found something he likes, oh yes, very much, he's moaning quietly against her and his mouth is working harder, pulling, drawing, and she's shuddering with the darts of agonized pleasure coursing through her body to tangle between her thighs, bringing her moisture, making her ready. She strokes his hair with an unsteady hand, whispers her praise; she lets that hand wander over his side, trace his ribs, his hip, his thigh. Lets it play over the fabric of his pajama trousers, slowly passes it over his front, lets her knuckles graze the front of his groin and her breath exhales in a rush. He's hard for her now, ready, and she's torn between ending this wonderful worship -- he's moved his mouth to her other breast now and he's discovered suckling at one while gently torturing the other between forefinger and thumb almost blinds her with the sensation, her entire body begins to tremble -- she's torn between ending that and beginning what comes next.

 _That -- oh, that's nice. That's lovely, oh. Oh. Please. More, please, like that_.

Slowly, so slowly, she slides her hand beneath his trousers, lets her fingers gently wrap around his cock in the softest of grips, in the most careful of touches. His breath comes hard against her breasts and he tries to bite back his whimper, his small deep moan, but she can feel it roll through his chest and she's careful not to move her hand, doesn't want it over before it begins, but she wants to touch him, to feel all of that silken hardness in her palm.

_On top of me, Mr. Carson, please._

**III. Them.**

He's between her open legs now, kneeling there, and respectfully, lovingly, he's lifting her nightdress to her waist, baring her lower body, looking at the dark soft hair between her pretty thighs and she takes his hand, guides it to her body, presses it against her vulva. The heat and wetness there is shocking to his senses, almost more than he can stand, but then there's more, isn't there, there's always more with her, there's always something else beautiful hidden beneath, and she's parting her labia, letting him see her secret flesh, the glistening pink, and he touches there with careful fingers and he's proud when his touch jolts her, when she shows him just how, just there, when her hips arch off of the bed and her moans turn guttural.

She sits up, works his trousers down his hips, eases them over his straining cock, and he leans in to kiss her and thinks the same thought again, the same thing he's thought since they started this. Thinks maybe he should say it, maybe she should know, but she's showing him something else now, something else first, and she's laying back and bending her knees and pulling him down on top of her and helping him, oh, doesn't she always help him?

 _Slowly, please, just -- not too fast and it'll be lovely_.

He fumbles a bit, of course he does, it's his first time after all, but just for a moment then he's pressing just there and she's pushing and helping and then --

_Oh. Oh, Mr. Carson. Oh._

He stays completely still, lost, helpless, and thank god her arms are around him and she's telling him how and when because -- because --

_Mrs. Hughes, I -- oh. God. Oh, love, oh._

It's nothing like anything else; it's silk and hot oil and tight and soft and velvet and everything in him is telling him to go deeper, deeper into her, deeper, but he's waiting, he's waiting for her to tell him because --

_Oh, love. I can't -- oh._

She's making him wait because she knows it'll be over so soon if he doesn't; if he can wait, if he can just be inside of her like this for a moment, then perhaps they can make it last because it's so right, it's so everything; he's hard and filling her perfectly and it's only better from here.

_You can. Oh, you can, Mr. Carson. Now, just a little, slowly._

She's given him permission so he withdraws a bit, thrusts gently into her, repeats the movement, and there's that feeling again, there's that swelling pride when she moans, when she pleads, when she slides her hands over his ass, pulling him in as deep as she can.

_Please, yes, oh. That's right, that's it, oh, please._

He thrusts again, dares to push a bit harder, a bit deeper, and it's taking him over now, the need to drive into her, to touch her as deeply as he can, to put some kind of claim on her, and his hips rise and fall as he finds his rhythm, the natural rhythm that is second nature to lovers coupling like this. Her moans have transformed, are almost little low screams in his ear as he gives himself over to the need, to the want, as he finally learns that there's a reason he never would with those drunken girls, with those paid women, as he finally realizes he's been waiting for her for so long and she's finally bringing him home, she's finally taking him in from the storm, she's finally come to save him.

_I love you, I love you._

And neither of them could figure, if pressed, who said it first or when but it becomes a mingled chanted thing between them as they push toward their climax and she goes first, her fingers frantically stroking her clitoris, her lips desperately seeking his in the low soft light, as she tells him in shaking whispers.

_Now, right now, oh, please, don't stop, don't hold back, almost, oh, now, now, now._

When she comes her cunt tightens around him and her fingers press into his hips and he lets go of it all and goes along shortly after her, heaving and shuddering and thrusting and holding her tightly and whispering that same thought against her ear, whispering it over and over.

_I was waiting for you._

**IV. Last.**

She buttons his shirt again. He smooths her nightdress down over her hips and legs. Together, jointly, they pull the quilt up over their cooling bodies, nestle down against the pillows. Her head is on his shoulder, he is holding her hand against his chest. He's not sure what to say, thinks he should say something. Should thank her for being so patient, so tender; should tell her how beautiful she was, is. He hopes he didn't disappoint her. He tried so hard, and it was so perfect for him; if it were anything less for her it would shatter him. He wishes she'd say something first, she's always the one with the quick word, the instant rejoinder.

She smiles. He can feel her smile, can feel her lips curve against his shoulder.

"Mr. Carson, I hope your first woman was satisfactory."

He opens his mouth to reply but can't gather up enough words to tell her. He's not a poet, that's the trouble; he's not a poet or a writer or anything special, he's not someone who can rope words and paint beautiful skies out of them. If only he could let her know, but she's not finished, she's going on.

"Because your first certainly had better be your last."

A soft sigh leaves him and stupidly, tears have gathered in the corners of his eyes and he wishes, he wishes there were some way he could just tell her.

"Mrs. Hughes?"

Fingertips light on his lips, brush across them tenderly.

"I know. Me, too."

Of course she knows. Doesn't she always?


End file.
